


what’s it gonna be like when the sound of you and i dies out?

by amberprimrose



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Borussia Dortmund, FC Bayern München, Friendship, Gen, Real Madrid CF, Robert Lewandowski - Freeform, Sergio Ramos - Freeform, fallout of the 2018 world cup, intra-team rivalries, luka modric - Freeform, mario gotze - Freeform, mentions of - Freeform, nations league
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-10 12:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20135671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberprimrose/pseuds/amberprimrose
Summary: Believe the signs we see in the cards, believe the signs we read in our dreams.One thing you learn after losing your crown is that there is always going to be a ledge for you to jump off. The waves engulf and you can always sink lower.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all. I started writing this last autumn and it turned out to be creepily foreshadowing in hindsight, so I finally decided to post it. Hope you like it! 
> 
> In true fanfiction fashion, I used song lyrics for my title, which I took from "Fire Rides" by MØ: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o4_1SDeMfj8 The chapter intros I took from "Leave the Others Alone" by Sophie Ellis-Bextor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5B3Mhhd25dw Give them a listen if you like. There's a sense of wistfulness and contemplation to these songs that I thought fit the vibe of the fic.

**Chapter One**

_ you say we’re so alike. _

_ well. _

_ i wouldn’t want to live on the difference. _

10.11.2018

As a product of Schalke 04’s youth system, Manuel has always reserved a special kind of disdain for Borussia Dortmund. In Gelsenkirchen, you’re not even allowed to say their name, else you want to end up with a few well-placed and well-meaning punches. You know, for your own good. Once, the mention of the name would have enraged him, like someone had pressed a button for hatred. Once, he wore a blue armband and his blood would sing, itching for a fight. But that was a lifetime ago and he’s not welcome there anymore. _ Best not to dwell on all that. What’s done is done. _

Now, his armbands (plural) have different markings and his club has different rivalries, as Thomas so helpfully kept pointing out in the locker room after Leon expressed his very own homegrown distaste for the city and its stadium.

“Guys, for the last time, this isn’t a _ Der Klassiker_, I don’t care what the media calls it. Schalke and Dortmund are rivals; for us, they’re just… there.” He casually waves his hand with the superiority that only a true-born Bavarian could display for other German teams.

“Oh really, Thommy? Then who are our derby rivals, pray tell?” Lewy chips in, eager to contribute to a bit of pre-game banter.

For a minute, Thomas appears to be rummaging inside his brain for a proper answer before nonchalantly throwing out a “1860 München?” His laugh is catty and spoiled, but it lights up the room. Bayern are too important to be involved in petty rivalries with small clubs if their “derby” is with a team that plays in the goddamn _ dritte Liga_, is what he means to say. 

“How about Real Madrid?” Of course Mats wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t add a smart-arse joke. Everyone starts laughing, but this time it’s self-deprecating, with a chorus of “too soon, man” and “please, not again” joining in. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I meant,” he shrugs dismissively. 

Manuel smiles fondly at his idiots. Gallows humour is all they’ve got lately. Judging by the standings, they’re not doing too hot right now and another humiliation in front of an annoying antagonist is the last thing they need. Outside, convulsing jeers greet them like an invading army. When he settles into his goal, the rest of his team-mates aligning in formation, a deep sigh comes out of nowhere. _ God, I fucking hate Borussia Dortmund. _

*

Mats smirks at him in the tunnel, but not unkindly. Whereas once they’d celebrate victories together, tonight his old friend is tasked with keeping him as further away from Manu’s goal as possible. At least this time he doesn’t have to worry someone’s going to break his legs. Mats may be a turncloak and his transfer still hurts to think about, but he’s not a fucking wanker. _ He grew up in München, though, what did you expect?! _Later, when he misses a clear shot at goal, Mats will hold onto him and keep him from falling into a heap when they collide. Maybe they don’t cut out their hearts in the South after all.

Everyone greets him, all smiles, but they’re all over Mario, hugging him, laughing with him, asking him how he’s been. It stings to remember why they’re so chummy, but Marco tries to let bygones be bygones. He wonders how happy to see them their Bayern buddies will be if they manage to win tonight. He wonders if they’d rather have Mario next week instead of him.

It feels strange to shake Manuel’s hand, captain to captain, Dortmunder to Schal… Münchner, foes one match, friends the other. Next week, Manuel will be his captain, too. They both frown and laugh at the absurdity of that situation. But he’ll worry about that bridge when he has to cross it. Right now, he’s at home, he’s safe, he’s loved. 

But still. _ Couldn’t they have scheduled this stupid game another time??? _

*

Lewy is a hellspawn, terrorizing Dortmund’s defences, diving for penalties, arguing with the referee, anything to find the slightest crack to hook his claws in. Someone must have woken him up from his eternal slumber with a skilled bit of necromancy and, as a thank you to his coven of witches, he has no qualms about sinking a knife in the heart of his former team to give Bayern an unexpected lead. Thomas shouting at him in delight, Leon hugging him like he saved his first born from certain death. There he stands in front of furious fans, decked in red, arms crossed, tongue cheekingly peeping out – the devil incarnate. The angry hum of bees lights up his smile. It’s dazzling and exasperating and fits him perfectly.

*

That yellow fucking twat somehow manages to outfox him into a penalty, kicking the ball _ away _ from goal, so he has no chance to reach it and then diving into him for a foul. He pulled his arms back, but by that time, it was too little, too late. The pure revulsion he radiates would be enough to power a small village. _ How dare he!!! _ He thought he was over this stupid rivalry, but right now he feels like crushing Marco’s little eggshell skull in his hands. Instead, he seethes towards his line.

Captain of Schalke, Captain of Bayern. The Yellow Wall has double the reason to hate him and for this moment their chants are louder than ever. _ The best goalkeeper in the world_, they keep telling him. Marco prepares to shoot.

He dives the wrong way.

*

Thomas finds a sliver of space to pass to Serge, who back-heels it gently to angry little Joshi. Between three defenders and an out-of-position goalkeeper, a red demon rises to convert the cross. Lewy runs over to the stands, taunting the crowd. The jeers are deafening, but he can’t hear them. He’ll get no love here, but in the _ Freistaat,_ they thank the stars for him. 

*

But Dortmund have their own Pole, waiting in the wings. Lukasz Piszczek flat-crosses the ball to Marco, just shy off the penalty spot, three defenders in his way. His volley finds a gap and travels past Manuel’s outstretched hand, so close but powerless to stop it, a stunning equalizer.

The crowds are ecstatic. His captain is fuming. 

_ No. I’m the captain now_, Marco thinks_. _Signal Iduna seems to agree. 

*

Maybe a draw wouldn’t be so bad after all. For an out-of-form Bayern facing an in-form Borussia, that would actually be okay. Manuel doesn’t have time to finish his thought and watches in horror how an exhausted Ribéry loses the ball and now suddenly Paco Alcacer is running down towards his box, 1 v 1 with a goddamn striker _ again_, his defenders nowhere and his holding midfielder too slow to stop him. Paco’s ball chips right over him and he wonders whether he can embitter himself out of existence. 

His outraged howl transcends TV screens and blends with the screeches of raging Bayern fans all over the world. Somewhere on the way to Galicia, the stream on Toni’s phone holds on just long enough for him to start groaning, head in hands. This is going to be a long week. 

*

Twenty minutes later, Lewy back-heels it into the net like only a cold-blooded assassin could, but he misjudges his position and the linesman raises the flag, denying him a hattrick. His face contorts, his Satanic powers not enough to wrestle one point away for safe-keeping. The referee whistles over a buzz of yellow. 

In front of the sub bench, in his puffy coat, Thomas looks close to tears.

_Borussia Dortmund – three. Bayern München – two. _

****

11.11.2018, Vigo

Casemiro was the first to go. Ten minutes in and the Brazilian was already limping, begging to be subbed off. Then they came for poor Reguilon. Twenty minutes to go and Nacho is writhing on the floor in pain. Odriozola isn’t looking too hot either. At this rate, they’ll run out of defenders for good. 

Toni looks back at Sergio and his brown eyes are like a deer’s, large and anxious. Even he is taken aback by Celta’s display of violence. It doesn’t bode well if they managed to scare off even the patron saint of red cards. Down to his right, Luka looks rattled as well. Toni fucking knows why. It gets like this every time. When they fall, as they inevitably do, it’s not without a hundred pinpricks to the heart and a sinking stomach. When they get up, as they hopefully do, they double-check to see if everything is intact.

_ Not me, not me, not me, go and fucking kill Bale if you have to. Wales never do anything of note anyway! Benzema isn’t even called up! _ he thinks every time a blue-skied fuckwit gets within an inch of him. This place is like a slaughterhouse. Yesterday his biggest concern was having to play with a bunch of despondent Bavarians, now it’s getting back to Germany in one piece.

Not even Luka wants to keep the ball too much, passing it away like it’s iron-hot or a bomb ready to explode. He has to skipper his country away from relegation next week and he needs both legs for that. Toni does, too. Not to sound too full of himself, but _ I’m too important to die in a fucking backward town in Galicia of all places. _

Had he managed to convert that easy cross from Benzema (he still can’t believe he missed with an open net; imagine all the fucking memes they must be making), now it would have been 3-1 and maybe these worthless pieces of shit would settle down for once. Instead they press and press and when they get frustrated by how stupid they are, they start fouling. “No me toques, hijo de mil putas!” People usually tell him he’s too closed-off, but this time Toni’s snarl takes his marker by surprise (_does he even know who I am???_) He shoves Mendez away in contempt. _Is this the raging idiot Luis Enrique wants in his squad?_

The football gods decide to throw them a bone and Odriozola is brought down in the box by whatshisface. Not even VAR can help Celta now. And after everything they’ve done, it’s hard to feel bad for them. Toni holds his breath as Sergio places the ball on the spot. He’s going to Zagreb next week, so he’d better not fuck this up. These relegation zone upstarts will not rest until they’re dead for good. He does his staccato run, feinting and contorting his body before chipping it down the middle. A perfect panenka. Their hearts always stop when he does this: the easiest save in the world if the keeper doesn’t take the bait and stands still. But of course he can’t shoot a penalty straight, it has to be humiliating with him. It has to be _ fanciful. _ Sergio likes to play with his food before eating it.

Spain’s Captain wants to lift the first Nations League trophy in the summer and god help the idiot who stands in his way.

He wishes Lukita all his best.

_ Real Club Celta de Vigo - two. Real Madrid - four. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone talks about the Bayern - Borussia rivalry, but I found it interesting to highlight how ex-Schalke (or even ex-BVB) players approached this match, since they would possibly be more galvanised than anyone about this. The different dynamics between players and their former clubs / team mates is something I think gets lost in conversation a lot. I also thought it was quite ironic that they placed such an emotional fixture right before they had to assemble for international break again - sometimes you don't even have to make stuff up, life just has a script of its own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_ heaviness sets _

_ the seed _

_ for the next generation. _

13.11.2018, Leipzig

Mats Hummels, blood traitor and knave, gets up genially to greet him as he makes his way down for supper. “Marco, the man of the hour! I suppose we should congratulate you for that masterful display against us on Saturday. Must feel good for Dortmund to finally be winning something for a change, eh?” After all they’ve been through together, Champions League final and all, his fucking wink at the end is unbelievable. He doesn’t even want to eat at this table, he’d rather sit with the fucking _ Kanaken_, but the snake cornered him and now there’s nowhere else to go. He has to stand there like a rookie about to get hazed, knife-points aimed at him, Mats patting him on the back – the condescending parent of a schoolboy who just learnt how to tie his shoelaces a couple of years too late.

Thomas’ eyes move apprehensively from him to Manu, not thrilled to get into a fight, but ready to stand up for his own if necessary. Even young Joshua looks up morosely from his plate, like Marco murdered his favourite dog. Leon doesn’t even bother to hide his contempt. _ Fucking Schalker. _ But it’s the main Schalker he has to contend with, the one he pissed off the most. Manuel’s lips curl in a grimace he’s making an effort to contain. “Pity he doesn’t play like that for his own country.” 

The laughs that come are cruel and unwarranted. Manuel knows how much playing for Germany means to him, but he’s also impossible when he concedes a goal. Suddenly he feels so damn alone. Even his former team-mate is being a dick. _ At least if Mario were here… _ Toni’s face is impassive, but he fixes Marco with a stone-cold stare, which for him means that he’s pissed off. No help coming from there today. They shared a goal together, one shining moment of hope, but the memory is cold and far-away. What came after is better left unsaid. Marco wonders why he would care so much in the first place. _ He’s not even a Southerner, for chrissake_. Then he remembers Real’s bad streak and all the flak they’ve been getting lately, while there he stands, baiting him, beating his former team, bright and golden and untouchable for once in his life. _ Toni, jealous of me? Ha! That’s a first. _

In the end, it’s the snake who takes pity and pulls Marco to the empty seat next to him, shielding him from Manu’s irascible mood, though Rudy is sitting just across, another fucking Schalker, albeit new and uncracked. “So, Tonito,” Mats jokes, after the cackles have subsided, “how many bulls did you have to sacrifice to convince Jogi to leave you off for Russia? I’m aching all over, but I still have to play, you poncy little princess.” 

Toni’s reply is as even and measured as everything he does. “I asked Sergio to stab a few for a friend.” His lips lift in a self-satisfied smile. _ Look how important I am_, it says. Marco wants so badly to roll his eyes. 'Sergio’ would break his ankles without a moment’s notice and sleep like a baby afterwards, yet he’d fight a bull to the death so that precious Toni could get some rest.

_ This is why people fucking hate Bavarians. _

*

Marco is rooming with Mats this time. Snake as he is, he thinks it's probably for the best. Mats may be a little shit and he may be pissed off right now, but Marco is pretty sure he will always be able to call him a friend. 

Nevertheless, Mats has been even more irritating than usual, constantly whining and feeling sorry for himself. How sick he is, how tired he is, what sacrifices he has to make for Germany because he's so vital in defense, even though people have been SO mean to him lately, but what can he do when he's so ILL??? An hour ago he even saw Joshua, who Kovač and Jogi use as their own personal work horse, scoff at him in disbelief, shaking his head, half-amused, half-annoyed. 

He tries to get away from him sometimes, but Mats invariably follows him around everywhere, always yapping about this and that, the new book he's been reading or baby recipes or what Cathy told him on the phone. It's like he has a never-ending reserve of conversation topics he just pulls out of thin air and Marco has to hear all of them because he wrapped his fingers around his arm so that he would never leave. 

“I have half a mind to pack you in my suitcase and take you back to München. Ludwig would love you.”

Marco giggles despite himself. “Mario used to tell me… didn't you drop him in a suitcase once?” 

*

Thomas was the one who put Mario in the suitcase. The night they won the World Cup, he dragged Germany's golden boy away from the party, drunk out of his mind both on alcohol and victory. Mario was precious. Thomas loved him and their entire country did, as well. His smile was made of sunshine and daisies and his left foot brought them more joy than they could put into words. He couldn’t let anything bad happen to their little dandelion.

But when he got to the hotel room, a mumbling yellow gemstone dangling from his neck, he found that he was suddenly tired and could not be bothered to lift him to the bed. Mario's suitcase was right next to them, wide open and looking comfortable enough, a bundle of clothing thrown in a hurry several hours ago, when their entire world was so uncertain, fabric cluttered like all the possible futures ahead. So Thomas plunked him there and left. He still laughs when he thinks about it.

Now he's sharing a room with Manu, who is in quite some mood, fretting about, arranging his things and moving them around, the four walls bunched together too close to contain his pacing. Thomas stands still and waits for his friend to either start talking or work trenches into the floor.

“Have you read what they’re saying about me?” Manuel finally says, pursed lips, jaw clenched, vexed and resentful and ready to take on the world.

“What, online? I try not to read too much.” That’s not a battle he’s ever going to win. 

“How I’m past it, how I concede so much, how Marc deserves a chance to prove himself.” Thomas chuckles at his affronted tone. He knows very well what it feels like to fight it off with someone for position. He’s not particularly good at anything - he’s not very fast, he’s not the best dribbler, he’s not that difficult to dispossess, he’s just… _ there _. He’s not like Manuel, “the best [insert position X] in the world”, undisputed starter, world class every time he shows up. He’s just the best at being Thomas Müller. So far, that’s worked perfectly for him. What he does have, though, is a knack for being in the right place at the right time, for reading the flow of the game and knowing just where the ball wants to go, so that he can be there and greet it like an old friend. Sometimes he thinks that his job is more akin to a fortune-teller than anything.

“Nonsense. None of that is your fault. The season’s only just begun. No one who knows anything about football is blaming you.”

“If I’m not to blame, then who is? It can’t be _ no one _ ’s fault, Thomas. _ Someone _ has to be in the wrong here.”

_ I am _ , he wants to say. _ Or the system is. We all are. Maybe we’re getting old. Maybe we just got lucky and now it’s all dried up. _He was daring enough to score 10 World Cup goals, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell that to Manuel, though, four years older than him and obsessing about his legacy. Thomas thinks how his preferred spot is almost always given to someone else. Just behind the striker, highly sought-after real estate. Invariably, his coaches find themselves in the same dilemma over and over again: there are always others more proficient than him. Playmakers, prodigies, creatives. But they can’t not play him either, his skills (such as they are) are useful; he’s also a pet Bavarian, a beloved fan favourite. A mascot. So off he goes on the wings, making a fool of himself, bread and circuses and all. 

“Sometimes… it’s possible to give it everything you have and still lose. It’s not about weakness. It’s just life.” The hum of traffic and people and life reaches his from outside, distant and quiet.

“In our line of work, bad form isn’t looked upon kindly. I don’t want…” Manuel wrenches the words out of himself, the effort the same as saving a penalty. “I just got back from injury, I _just _got the captaincy, I don’t want to… The last time I was captain, I was wearing blue.” He stops there, staring at his phone, but Thomas is sure he can’t see it anymore.

When he sits, the bed shifts slightly under his weight. He gives his team mate a gentle nudge with his shoulder. “Nobody is going to take your armband away from you, Manu. And if they try, I'll fight them.”

Manuel looks at him perplexed. “Thomas, you've never even punched anyone in your life.”

His shrug is simple and endearing. “For you, I would.” 

*

_ The captain of Bayern is the captain of the national team _. Such it has always been and such it will always be. Very rarely does it ever deviate from tradition. Toni is never gonna become the captain of Bayern. He could have once, but he left. Real go by a strict hierarchy based on seniority and he is too low in the pecking order for that to ever happen. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t sting. Vice-captain is all that he can hope for. Goalkeepers tend to play every game, though, so seldom does he get to put on the armband and it’s usually just for inconsequential matches. 

Goalkeepers also have an infuriatingly long life-span. He thinks of Buffon at 40, still playing in the Champions League. He thinks how he’ll be able to hold up when he’s Manu’s age. He thinks of Sergio and Luka, question marks starting to muddy their pristine white jerseys. He thinks of Cristiano. No, actually, he’d rather not think about Cristiano.

He thinks of the fucking game taking place in front of him. Mats managed to weasel his way out of playing after all and is sitting on the bench next to him with the same congratulatory smirk his face always seems to settle into, none-the-wiser to what is happening on the pitch and to what it means for all of them. The old guard. _ The World Champions. _

Leroy Sané scored the first goal, just 8 minutes in, and Toni finds that he’s not in the mood for celebrating. A self-important twerp playing for a pathetic little upstart club, with the stupidest tattoo he’s ever seen in his entire life and he plays for _ Real Madrid_, so he knows what he’s talking about. He was the one to ask to sit on the bench, but now he looks on in horror as someone else is taking _ his _ corners, _ his _ freekicks and (hopefully not) _ his _ hard-earned penalties.

Gnabry scores the last goal without him in the field. One day, Toni will cheer when that happens. He’ll even get ecstatic. He’ll shout suggestions at his TV screen and have a heart attack at every miss and when the ball finally hits the back of the net, he’ll grab his kids and squeeze their ribcages shut. But that day maybe hasn’t come yet. _ No. _ This one’s on him, this is what he wanted. He feels guilty for being so selfish. _ Of course it’s here. Of course. _ His applause and praises are as loud as anyone’s. But that nagging thought keeps dragging a piece of chalk on the blackboard of his skull: _ They can win without me. _

_ Germany - three. Russia - two. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to use this chapter as an excuse to delve into the question of captaincy and what it means to our characters. Hope you like it! The Mario-suitcase shenanigans I took from this clip: https://youtu.be/IFFnm89Y_mI?t=900 
> 
> I wrote this way before Mats & Thomas got kicked out of the national team and now, looking back at it, it seems kind of eerie, like I was planning for all these thoughts to catch up with them and materialize. What can I say? I am a mere vessel, interpreting omens in the flames.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_ i live on my dreams. _

_ well, i’d never do anything to make them happen. _

_ no, i’d never do anything to make them happen. _

16.11.2018, Gelsenkirchen

Manuel lets Joshi sit at the head of the table this time. He looks so young and eager and delighted to be receiving so much attention. Patted on the back and praised and beloved, Germany’s (and Bayern’s!) golden boy. Future captain material, bright and shiny and perfect.

Of course, Marco would like nothing more than to sit between Rüdiger and Draxler and have some peace and quiet for a change, but, of course, he is held hostage by Bavarians and there is little he can do about it. 

At least his leash is long enough to allow him to go to the buffet. As he absent-mindedly surveys the food selection for this morning and, as it naturally happens in these kinds of situations, he bumps into the very person he is the least thrilled to see. One good look at Manuel and he feels the unabated urge to smack some sense into him. _ Why is he filling his plate with white sausages when there’s perfectly good Currywurst just standing there?? _

“You know we don’t fucking eat this in the Ruhr valley, yes?” 

Manuel turns to him pointedly and doesn’t forget to place a generous wallop of sweet mustard on his plate. Marco wants to gag. “Your stubborn refusal to accept change in your life may appear cute to some, but other people might interpret it as lack of maturity.” 

That’s it. He’s about to have it out with Germany’s national treasure over a plate of fucking _Weißwurst_. “You’re still pissed at me.” Marco is tired of being rolled over and he’s half-convinced the reason Mats keeps following him around is to keep anyone from picking on him too much.

“Oh, really, you think?!” Manu does that annoying thing when he’s raising his eyebrows and fixing his mouth in a petulant expression.

“Look, Manuel, if you have a problem with me…” Mats appears out of nowhere and tries to slither himself between them, but a firm hand keeps him away. He may be big, but Manuel is the biggest. 

“It was a dick move, _ Marco _.” His name is poison yellow spit out like that. “You kicked me in the stomach for a penalty. They should have given you a yellow card for diving.”

Marco’s laugh is incredulous. “Oh please, like you’re above all that. You once robbed Lampard of a clear goal. Everyone and their mother saw it cross the line. How’s that for a dick move?”

Manuel’s eyes open and freeze on him: a warning. “That was different.”

“How?!” God, he can be so infuriating sometimes. _ He thinks he’s Germany’s fucking saviour and can do no wrong. _

“It was for our country! Are you seriously gonna complain about that?!” There it is, that infuriating sanctimonious tone of his.

“Well, this was for my club! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same for Bayern; you call offside every fucking time someone scores! As if that’s the only way _ the greatest goalkeeper in the world _ could possibly concede a goal. Or maybe you wouldn’t, I don’t know. You can wear all the _ Lederhosen _ you want, you’re not a real Bavarian anyway.”

Marco knows he crossed the line the moment the last syllable left his mouth and the way his back achingly collides with the wall of the common room is a pretty good confirmation. 

His captain looks at him with as much hatred as only a true-born Schalker is capable of. “Don’t you _ ever _ fucking say that to me again or I will send you back to _ Lüdenscheid-Nord _ in a body bag. Alright?” He lifted him like he was weightless. Even Toni is shocked and, out of all people, he is used to irascible captains.

Thomas tugs on Manuel’s elbow and he is released. _ Where the fuck did he come from, anyway? _ Mats gently prizes him away and fixes his shirt, brushes his cheek, squeezes his shoulder, makes sure he’s intact. Over at the table, Joshi and Leon look at him scandalized, like he just insulted their mothers.

“Does anyone else have a problem with me or my style of goalkeeping?” Manuel’s question is cold and ominous and accepts no challenge. 

Of course everyone stays silent or looks away and pretends nothing happened, trying to sweep the awkwardness under the rug. Marco groans, disappointed with himself. That was probably not his finest display. He looks back at Manuel, two stupid boys, born a few kilometers away from each other, who can’t settle their differences like adults and fight because of dumb shit no one cares about. _ Does anyone even remember the real reason we’re here? _ He picks at his food sullenly and gives Mats curt answers whenever he tries to drag him into a conversation. Fifteen minutes later, the entire table is up to date with Cathy’s new _ Tracht _ fashion collection and wouldn’t Scarlett look just smashing in a _ Dirndl _?

Marco turns incredulously to his frenemy. “I think I remember a nightmare starting that way.” Even Manuel laughs at that.

*

In the end, it didn’t even matter. In a shocking turn of events, the Netherlands managed to squeeze two past “the World Champions” (what a ridiculous moniker to give to such an overrated team) and, just like that, Germany got relegated to League B, without even getting to play their last game. “Such a pity.” “Nothing to be done.” Except that there was something they could have fucking done, no? They could have won their last two matches, but who’s counting anymore? The silence that fell over the TV room was more appropriate for a funeral.

He remembers a journalist once asking him whether he wasn’t tired of winning. He is definitely tired of losing, that’s for sure. He’s losing with Germany, he’s losing with Real. And he sure as fuck doesn’t want to play Croatia in League B. Good thing there aren’t any Englishmen at his club, at least. If there were, he’d have had to collect their entrails from the locker-room walls. _ What a hassle that would have been. Small mercies. _

“It’s not fair. They make me run like a maniac every game and never even give me a break. Everyone was rested for this stupid friendly except for me.” Joshua looks exhausted and gloomy beyond his years. He usually never complains and Toni knows that, left to his own devices, he would play every game until he collapsed. Nor would he ever call an international cap “stupid”. He’s only saying it because really? What’s the point now? No result is ever going to wipe this stain away.

“You’re good at it. I’m not.” It’s the closest thing to an admission of failure as Toni will ever give. He knows what Joshi meant by “everyone” and it feels unfair to him, too. _ But I laboured my way for this privilege _. Future captain Joshua Kimmich can wait his turn.

Toni offers him half of his orange.

*

Mats had taken to calling him ‘Der Titan’ after his little outburst. Manuel only hopes his legacy will be as lasting as that. 

It’s a strange feeling, not being welcome in your hometown anymore. This is probably the only time the stands will cheer instead of jeer him. You’d think that after all these years, they’d get over it, but _ no_. Nonetheless. He knows this stadium inside out. He grew up between these goalposts. They’re _ his_, no matter what they say, no matter how they look at him when the fabric circling his arm isn’t black and red and yellow. 

He wonders why they even came anyway. Nothing they can do tonight will make any difference - the Ruhr gathered around to sing them to sleep one last time. And who better to throw the first spadeful of dirt on their collective coffin other than their traditional, lost-long orange rivals? But Manuel is the biggest fool there is. Two early, shocking, wonderful German goals later, he thinks this is his chance. This is the night he finally gets a clean sheet. The possibility makes him giddy and giggly like he’s a little boy and the Veltins Arena is his Christmas tree, but an unexpected Dutch goal in the dying stages of the game quells whatever madness there was. 

Now he can hear the clockwork orange ticking into injury time. The smell of blood is in the air, one more gash to separate into his flesh before they can lay him down for his eternal rest. He’s so goddamn tired. He knows what’s going to happen before it even happens. A low cross and Van Dijk volleys it home, the Netherlands flying away from his hands, far away to Portugal, into his net, into the last four. Front-row seats to their tangerine piss miracle. The whistle can’t come soon enough.

The best goalkeeper in the world leaves his half-moon line and, leisurely, at his own phlegmatic pace, greets the German Player of the Year and passes the Raumdeuter to finally find Germany’s most lethal attacker among the crowd of apathetic countrymen and ecstatic Dutch. He is loath to give those fuckers something to celebrate in his own house of all places. Marco is none too pleased either. He doesn’t live that far from here, after all. The hug he gives him is an apology, steady and wistful. 

Marco hugs back. 

_Germany - two. The Netherlands - two._

***

“Come home with me.” The morning sun hits Mats from the side and he looks like a painting, sharp-angled and contrasting. A snake in a garden coiling around an apple.

“I don’t think you even know what that means.” Marco doesn’t mean what he says either. They’re both aware of the weight of that word and how it presses down on their shoulders, fixing them on the spot. It’s just a pity their homes happen to be on separate sides of the hollow. 

Mats’ smile is slow to blossom, like love, like betrayal, like the inevitable. He inclines his head in that sly way he does before he thinks of something evil to say, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Marco squeezes his shoulder and looks at him straight-on. “I know. I understand.”

Mats stays silent and crunches the apple between his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I know Mats would leave for Dortmund again when I wrote this? No, I did not. But now I got an extra layer of meaning for the bombshell ending of my fic. The gods chose to speak through me and now (albeit belatedly) I am sharing it with you. :))


End file.
